


The One Where They Buy a Cottage

by abblepie



Series: Sudfield Cottage [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Songfic, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), but still is technically one I think, heavy on the comfort, it was going to be more of one but then it became this full blown monstrosity and so, not shown but the aftermath, nothing graphic, sort of? like they already know but it's admitted, they don't know how to talk yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-28 12:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20063809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abblepie/pseuds/abblepie
Summary: Crowley mentioned an interest in taking a break from the city, just for a few decades. Maybe going somewhere quieter, slower, somewhere where he could work on a garden full of flowers and trees and vegetables and anything he could get his hands on.A week later, the angel tentatively suggested a place he’d been looking at in Hampshire, near the South Downs.--Wherein two occultish beings buy a cottage together and try to get used to the fact that nobody's watching them anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was supposed to be a songfic based on _I'll Be Your Mirror_ by _The Velvet Underground._ It still sort of is? The plot is sort of inspired by it, at least. The other song, the one they listen to in the Bentley, is _Spread Your Wings_ by, of course, _Queen_.
> 
> It's also my crack at the lovely South Downs post-canon idea. This was supposed to be short, and then I realized it was going to be fairly long, and I had even more ideas that I hadn't fit into it yet but I wasn't sure how to. So, I think I'm going to stop this story where it is because it feels somewhat contained, and make this a series of works so I can revisit this happy space whenever I get a new little plot idea.

They were an angel and a demon.

Crowley never let him forget this. It was always _Angel_ this and _Angel_ that. Always coming from that impassive face, hidden behind those dark lenses, expressive but just a bit off. Aziraphale could see his raised eyebrows, his tight lips, but he couldn’t see his eyes. What was he feeling when he called Aziraphale that? Frustration? Amusement? Boredom?

Aziraphale was certain that the demon more or less enjoyed his company. Well, fairly certain, at least. The only way to know for _sure_ was to ask and get an honest answer. Aziraphale wasn’t really one for asking. Still, there was quite a bit of evidence to support this idea. They had spent quite a lot of time together during the past 6000 years, much of which didn’t even involve fighting or discorporating each other. This was especially true regarding the time leading up to the Awk-opocolypse. There had been lunches and walks and a memorable dinner at the Ritz when it was all over.

They didn’t really talk about it, but there were more dinners after that. Dinners and talks and casually suggested plans. Crowley mentioned an interest in taking a break from the city, just for a few decades. Maybe going somewhere quieter, slower, somewhere where he could work on a garden full of flowers and trees and vegetables and anything he could get his hands on. Aziraphale nodded along, smiling gently, letting him lead the conversation but eventually letting it drop.

The idea stuck in his head, though. A week later, the angel tentatively suggested a place he’d been looking at in Hampshire, on the South Downs. There was a train line in the nearest town that led straight to London, although he assured Crowley that there’d be no problem with him taking the Bentley as well.

“Oh,” the demon said, lifting his eyebrows over those blasted sunglasses. “You’d want me to come with?”

“Well.” Aziraphale tugged at the cloth napkin on his lap. “You wouldn’t have to, of course. It’s not as though I’m _expecting_ you to.” That was a lie. “I only thought, if we were both interested in taking a break from the city, we might as well go together. To, oh, I don’t know. Split the expenses and things like that.”

“Right,” Crowley said, then sat there silently. They both knew very well that expenses had never been a problem for beings like them.

Crowley hadn’t ordered anything but a drink, and he leaned heavily on the arm resting on the table. Aziraphale could feel the table tremble slightly from the demon’s bouncing leg. He raised a bite of his dessert to his mouth, then lowered the fork again without biting it. He unnecessarily dabbed his mouth with a napkin. Hopefully that would hide the tight face he was sure he was making.

“I don’t mean to pressure an answer out of you, my dear boy.” He was impressed by how steady his voice sounded. “Either way we can keep in touch, with letters or… or you could show me how to use electronic mail, or send a… text message.” His mouth was quite dry. That was novel.

Crowley didn’t move, didn’t say anything at all. Even his leg was still, his lips parted slightly in an expression that Aziraphale, with his ages of experience, couldn’t place.

“I just thought… well, now that nobody’s keeping tabs, as it were, I might like to… to spend more time with you.”

The air between them was utterly still. Around them, the world continued to move. Couples laughed, set gentle hands on partners’ forearms. Traffic rumbled outside and silverware clattered against plates. Their waiter floated by, impervious to the silence, and refilled their water. Aziraphale tensed at the roaring sound of it. The waiter moved away. Again, silence.

“Say something, my dear boy,” he snapped finally.

Crowley’s eyebrows shifted in a way that meant he was blinking. “Sssorry,” he hissed, voice heavy like he was just waking up from a long nap. “Think I blacked out there for a second. What were you saying?”

Aziraphale huffed. “I… I was just asking if you had any interest in moving to a cottage somewhere in Hampshire…”

“With you,” Crowley finished. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.”

Aziraphale gave him a quizzical look. This was exhausting. “And?”

Crowley’s leg started bouncing again, which was at least better than the statue bit he’d been doing. “Yeah. I mean, sure, I wouldn’t be opposed. Like I said before, v’been thinking of taking a break anyway.”

Aziraphale let out a deep breath and the irritatingly human tension in his chest lessened.

“Right. Well. There’s no rush, but we should talk about it sometime if—”

“Tonight,” the demon said, then seemed to forcibly relax back into his chair. He had one arm thrown over the back. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I could give you a lift back to yours and we could… talk about it tonight.”

“Tonight,” Aziraphale echoed, a little smile flitting across his lips. “Righto, then.”

If he wasn’t aware that he was such an optimist, Aziraphale would have sworn that Crowley mirrored his smile slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up before he took a sip from his cup.

—

As eternal occultish beings, Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t tend to rush things. They met several times over the next few weeks, looking over properties and debating their merits and demerits on Aziraphale’s old computing machine.

“That’s nice,” Crowley said over a glass of Cabernet. He’d slipped his sunglasses off after the third or fourth glass, and now they rested on the desk next to Aziraphale’s monitor. Since then they’d been through another bottle and several houses. Crowley’s sharp golden eyes soaked each one in critically.

“Because of the garden?” Aziraphale squinted at the screen.

“Well, ‘cuz of the space for one, yeah. Tha’s part of it.” Crowley sipped. “But look at that room. That one.” The angel clicked the slideshow arrow too many times, skipping past the right picture. “No, not that one.” He clicked back. “There!” Crowley tapped a black polished nail against the screen.

Aziraphale frowned. “That’s just a big empty room dear.”

“Yeah, but,” Crowley propped an elbow on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “But, look at that open space and those cozy chairs. If we just get some heavy curtains to cover the windows and… and some shelves, and a desk, it’s make a — a fantastic…” He waved a hand near Aziraphale’s face, trying to conjure the word.

“A library,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley grinned widely, his eyes crinkling from it. “Tha’s the one, Angel. Gotta have one of those.” He glanced over at Aziraphale, then dropped his elbow back to his side. The angel suddenly felt chilly. “What’s wrong?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale blinked at him.

“Your face,” Crowley said, sitting back. “Looks all… sad or something.”

Aziraphale shook his head quickly. The room spun a bit, but not unpleasantly. “No, no, not sad. Just… that’s very sweet of you to think of me.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said. His wide eyes shot away from the angel’s face, landing on his sunglasses on the desk. Aziraphale would have sworn that his pupils had dilated slightly, but that was probably just a trick of the light.

Before the demon could snatch up his glasses again — and Aziraphale could see his hands twitching to do just that — he patted Crowley’s arm and turned back to the computer.

“Right,” he pushed onward, clearing his throat. “We’ll put that one on the _Fairly Lovely_ list.”

—

“You know, I think I’m actually rather fond of be-bop.”

It was another evening, another night of delegation at Aziraphale’s place. They’d narrowed it down to three nearly identical cottages and had been hemming and hawing over it every night for a week. Over a dozen bottles had been sacrificed to the cause, and during one of their frequent breaks Crowley had taught Aziraphale how to use the old vinyl player. The thing had gone untouched for decades now in his flat above the shop.

“Are you?” Crowley asked. He was sprawled over the whole couch while Aziraphale sat in his desk chair. He had his sunglasses on tonight, one eyebrow quirked over the lens.

“Yes. Especially… what was that one group? The Velveteers?”

When Crowley laughed — _really_ laughed — it was a whole body affair. He threw his head back, and his knees buckled up towards his chest for just a moment. Then he relaxed again, grinning and slipping off his sunglasses. “The Velvet Underground. Yeah, Angel. Notorious be-bop band, them.”

Aziraphale hummed into his glass. It was an easy Merlot — they really were getting to the bottom of the cask, as it were — but Aziraphale couldn’t really taste it. Whenever he got a glance of Crowley’s eyes, his mouth filled with the taste of sunlight — like apples and lemon and rose and honey. Sweet and sour and addicting. He shook his head in a wasted attempt to clear the flavors out. Then, without thinking, he flicked his hand. The needle on the record player dropped and a song started. Soft guitar for a few moments, and then:

_‘I’ll be your mirror, reflect what you are, in case you don’t know…’_

Crowley’s lip quirked, looking over to the player before snapping back to the angel. They almost looked hungry, but guarded. Aziraphale swallowed. _Bursts of apple._

_‘When you think the night has seen your mind…’_

“Would you… er… like to dance?” Aziraphale asked. His voice felt far away, like it was drifting up from the bottom of a bottle. Or maybe the bottom of several bottles — they’d certainly been through a few tonight.

“Dance?” Crowley echoed, as though Aziraphale had just admitted to sprouting two horns and a little forked tail. “Angels don’t dance.”

“Oh,” he responded, as though he hadn’t known that very well. “Well, that’s not entirely true—”

“A gavotte doesn’t count, Angel. You can’t _gavotte_ To the Velvet Underground.”

Aziraphale’s ears burned. He buried his face in his glass, inhaling deeply. _Plum and notes of chocolate._ It felt much flatter than when he’d started drinking. He couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Against his better judgement he glanced up again, back into the demon’s eyes. They were blown wide, most likely from the wine.

_‘Please put down your hands, ‘cause I see you…’_

Crowley broke away from the look first. “Your flat’s ssso bloody bright,” he hissed into the gloom, reaching for his glasses and slipping them back on. Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief despite himself. This was… easier.

“Well, ah…” He had no idea where to go with this sentence, and then with a beat of panic he realized that Crowley was standing up. “Are you leaving already?”

“Eh, I just remembered, got some things to take care of back at my flat.” He wouldn’t look at the angel, not even through his glasses. “Water plants and stuff. Ngh. Think I left a window open.” Aziraphale couldn’t remember him even having any windows.

“Oh, alright. Should we meet again tomorrow night to talk about —?"

“Any of them,” Crowley interrupted. “I’m fine with any of them. You pick.” He shuffled his feet. “Just let me know when you want to start packing things and we can… uh, I’ll bring the Bentley by and we’ll pack up. Alright?” And then he made a face that meant he was sobering up. Aziraphale suddenly felt very vulnerable about the warm fuzziness in his chest, but even though his head felt clearer as he followed suit, the warmth didn’t go away. Neither did the graininess in his mouth.

“Ah, alright.” Another moment of silence. The record was still spinning, the needle still running through the grains, but no music dared play. “I’ll be in touch, then.”

Crowley nodded, hands shoved in his pockets, and headed to the door.

Aziraphale frowned, standing up. “Dear,” he said quietly.

To his surprise, Crowley turned to face him with an open expression. Aziraphale stared blankly at him, wine glass still in his hand. He had absolutely no idea what to say, but he felt very off about how the conversation had ended.

“Drive safely,” he decided on.

Crowley smirked. Aziraphale wondered whether it reached his eyes. “Sure, Angel. I’ll do my best not to run over any pedestrians.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepened — that wasn’t what he’d meant by that — but before he could correct him, the demon had slipped out of the room. A few moments later, Aziraphale heard the slam of the Bentley’s door and the squeal of tires as it pulled away from the shop.

_He must be rightly miffed,_ Aziraphale thought miserably, _to treat the Bentley like that._ He slumped back into his chair, staring at the ceiling and feeling very confused about what had just happened.

Finally, he stood and walked over to the record player. “Stupid angel,” he muttered, lifting the record and slipping it back into its sleeve. He sighed, then slipped the album into the middle of the stack. He wouldn’t be doing that again.

—

A few days passed, and Aziraphale finally picked a house — the one that Crowley had mentioned before, with the garden and the room for a library — and he called the demon. Normally there’d be loads of paperwork and a meeting in person at the property, but that all sounded rather dull to Aziraphale, so he decided they wouldn’t have to do it.

That afternoon Crowley came over and helped assess the situation. They couldn’t bring every book — no amount of miraculous stretching would fit the entire shop into the Bentley — but Crowley agreed to let him bring a great deal. They didn’t mention their fight — was it a fight? — about dancing, and things felt almost normal.

—

By the time they were on the A3 headed south, it looked like it was going to rain. Granted, the sky was usually grey and cloudy, but today it looked particularly serious about the business.

“I’m worried about the books, Crowley.” Aziraphale leaned forward in his seat momentarily, looking up at the green tinged sky. Normally he spent his rides in the Bentley plastered back to his seat while he tested the limits of his faith in… well, anything, really. It turned out, though, that one could only drive so quickly and recklessly, and as long as it wasn’t central London during a heated conversation, nerves could only stay frayed for so long.

It was actually nice to be driving with Crowley, in a way. The countryside was beautiful.

“The rain’ll pass, Angel,” Crowley assured him. “Probably isn’t even the same weather down there.”

It was. By the time they reached Sudfield — the nearest settlement to their cottage — it was coming down in sheets. The whole town was on a bit of a slope, and water poured down the cobblestone streets in rivulets around the Bentley. Quaint shops and apartments lined the main street, but they seemed mostly closed, their awnings rolled up and their chairs tucked away. It was Sunday, Aziraphale realized. Crowley was talking animatedly next to him, hands off the wheel, but Aziraphale didn’t process whatever he was saying. He stared up at the downpour through the windshield, twisting his hands in his lap.

“Oh, really,” he muttered to himself, frowning up at the clouds.

He lightened just a bit when they left town and finally pulled up the hill to their new home. _Their new home._ There was something oddly intoxicating about that thought, but Aziraphale brushed past it.

Its windows were dark, like something sleeping, but Aziraphale could see from here the little empty flower boxes on the sills. There was a twisting path leading from the driveway to the front door, with a few unkempt hedges lining it. A somewhat twisted tree stood in front of the yard, but Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to be irritated with it for its somewhat haunted- looking state.

They sat in silence for a moment, the drumming of water against the roof settling around them. Finally, Crowley said, “Right, then,” turned off the car, and reached for his door.

Aziraphale shot a hand out, grabbing his wrist. The demon turned, eyebrows raised and face questioning behind his shades.

“The books,” Aziraphale blurted out. “I’m, ah, I’m worried about water damage. They’re awfully picky, you know, and I’d hate to have brought them all this way just for them to get moldy now.”

Crowley’s lip quirked oddly, first up and then down. “They wouldn’t dare get wet.”

Aziraphale glanced down. He was still holding Crowley’s wrist, but couldn’t seem to let go. _If I did, he’d just open the door,_ he told himself. _I’m only protecting the books._

“I don’t want to take the chance,” the angel pushed on.

Crowley tilted his head, his voice lowering slightly. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

Aziraphale felt oddly like a mouse being stalked. More oddly, he found that he didn’t mind. He licked his dry lips.

“Could we, ah, wait here for a moment? Just until the rain passes.”

Crowley didn’t say anything, but he leaned back against his seat. Aziraphale relaxed, releasing his arm. “Thank you.”

Crowley made a non-committal noise, pointedly looking out the window at the rain. The cottage was just a short drive and stroll from a particularly nice outlook on the South Downs. At the moment, though, it was impossible to see further than a few meters.

A few silent beats passed. Rain rhythmically poured down. Crowley put his hands back on the wheel and drummed his lithe fingers against it.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Could we perhaps listen to some music?”

Crowley snapped his fingers and the radio turned on, despite the fact that the car was entirely off. Gentle piano and Freddie Mercury joined the pair in the car.

_‘Sammy was low, just watching the show…’_

Aziraphale hadn’t heard this song before. “Who’s Sammy?” he asked, watching the radio.

Crowley laughed tightly, sitting back against his seat. He tapped his hands against his thighs. “Nobody, Angel. Just a metaphor.”

_‘His boss said to him, Boy you’d better begin, to get those crazy notions right out of your head…’_

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He wondered what exactly Sammy was a metaphor for. He glanced at the demon next to him.

_‘Spread your wings and fly away, fly away, far away…’_

The storm was whipping around them, but inside the Bentley, Aziraphale felt perfectly safe.

“It’s sort of fitting, isn’t it?” he said gently.

“Hmm?” Crowley turned down the radio.

“Well, the first day that we spoke, it was raining."

Crowley hummed. He looked thoughtful, distant and near all at once. Aziraphale wanted desperately to reach out to him. “It was, wasn’t it?” More tapping on the wheel. “And you covered me with your wing.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Why did you do that?”

He turned to look at the demon. His face was impassive, but behind his glasses, he could be feeling any number of things. Aziraphale thought for a moment about how best to answer, then decided on telling the truth.

“It felt like the right thing to do.”

Crowley scoffed, turned away and stared out the windshield. The rain was letting up now, droplets shaking off the tree in the breeze. Crowley’s hands shook slightly against the steering wheel. He gripped it tightly.

“Course. You’re an angel. Always doing the right thing, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale smiled, but it felt thin. There had been so many times when he’d pulled away from Crowley, or when that didn’t work, pushed him away. He’d told himself it had been the right thing to do, that he was only protecting Crowley from whatever retribution Hell would have for a demon who got too friendly with an angel. Now he wasn’t so sure he’d ever been right.

He twiddled his thumbs. “Sometimes I wonder about that.”

Crowley was so still that Aziraphale wondered if he’d heard.

_‘Pull yourself together, ‘cause you know you should do better. That’s because you’re a free man.’_

“Rain’s stopped,” he noted, tapped the steering wheel once, and opened the car door.

Aziraphale watched, dumbstruck, as Crowley walked up to the cottage. There was a familiar swagger, a shuffle, to his gait. It made the whole alien scene look more welcoming. He pulled the keys out of the mailbox where they’d been left, then turned to look at the angel. He was _waiting._

Sun broke through the clouds, and lyrics came unbidden to Aziraphale’s mind.

_‘I’ll be the wind, the rain and the sunset, the light on your door, to show that you’re home.’_

—

Over the next few hours, Crowley and Aziraphale got acquainted with their new home. The place wasn’t that big, all in all. It had compact rooms, low ceilings, and nothing you could really call a hallway. The walls were stone in some places, pleasantly cool to the touch. Polished wooden beams crossed the ceiling. The front door opened directly into the kitchen. All of the rooms sort of led into each other, really. There was a kitchen, a bathroom, a master bedroom, a guest bedroom, a small dining room with large picture windows, and an empty den that they would convert into a library. There was a fireplace in the den which Aziraphale eyed warily. Crowley didn’t make a mention of it and quickly moved on to another room.

They had a decently sized attic, but neither of them were quite sure what to do with it. It was currently full of old movies and assorted yard games. There was also an already stocked wine cellar, which they’d both been quite excited about. And of course, there was the garden.

“It’s not much of a garden, yet,” Crowley said that afternoon as they strolled around the perimeter of the house. He had his hands stuck in his pockets in a pose that should have looked relaxed, but instead gave Aziraphale the impression of a drill sergeant. The late afternoon sun caught up in his hair beautifully. “Honestly, I think these hedges were a poor choice. If you just let them grow they look too scraggly, but if you shape them they look forced. A cottage garden should be relaxed, you know?”

Aziraphale nodded as though he did. Crowley leaned over to his ear so the plants wouldn’t hear and whispered, “But I feel a bit bad thinking about digging them up, y’know? S’not their fault they got planted here."

Aziraphale failed to suppress a shiver that ran through him at the warm breath in his ear. He stared straight ahead at the blackthorn tree, praying — or at least hoping — that the demon could have possibly missed it.

He didn’t, nor did he extend the courtesy of ignoring it. “What was that?” His voice sounded strained.

Aziraphale’s hands had been relaxed at his sides, but he clasped them behind his back tightly. “Ah, it’s a bit chilly still, isn’t it? Must be from the rain.”

Crowley made a noise that could have been agreement, then kindly let the subject drop.

Things went well until evening came around. They’d moved a few of Aziraphale’s fussier books indoors, as well as the houseplants Crowley couldn’t bear to part with. One snake plant sat in the corner of the den, resting after the long drive. The room was fairly sparse, but there would be time for decorating later.

They were working their way through an Austrian Pinot Noir considerably less frantically than they’d been drinking in the previous months. Crowley was sprawled over the couch while Aziraphale sat comfortably in the floral armchair. It was an odd sort of echo of the bookshop — similar, but not the same.

They’d realized that the cottage didn’t have any working light bulbs as the indigo dusk overtook the house. They’d decided silently not to light the fireplace, even though they’d been left a lovely stack of dry wood beside the house under a little shed. It was pleasantly dark, the kind of darkness that you felt protected by. It was homey.

They’d been chatting, planning trips into town and talking about what furniture should go where and when they should take a walk to the cliffs, when a comfortable lull rose in the conversation. Aziraphale smiled into his glass, taking a small sip. He looked across the room at the demon lounging so familiarly. A small thought rose in his mind. _Of course it feels like home._ Crowley _is here._ He hoped that the heat in his cheeks would be read as inebriation as he pushed the embarrassingly soft thought from his mind.

“So,” Crowley drawled casually. As far as Aziraphale could tell, he was looking up at the beams. “Who’s going to take the master bedroom?”

Aziraphale’s smile froze on his face. He hadn’t really thought about it. He didn’t need to sleep. Neither of them did, really, but Aziraphale didn’t particularly enjoy it, either. He hadn’t really had much practice with it. However, when he’d imagined them getting a little place initially, he’d always assumed they would just share a room. The whole point of living together was being close, wasn’t it? And if not that, then sharing a bedroom would at least open up more space for whatever else they wanted to do with the place.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say this, but instead what came out was, “I thought we would sleep together?”

Crowley’s face was entirely unreadable. He had turned his face to the angel, though, so Aziraphale was fairly certain he’d heard. The angel tried to keep a reassuring smile on his face. After a few moments Crowley said, “I dun think that’s a good idea.”

Aziraphale’s smile dropped. He looked down at his hands. “Ah.” And then, something new happened. He pushed. “Might I ask why?”

Aziraphale didn’t ask questions. He’d been a shit angel, but that was one thing he’d had down pat, at least until the days leading up to Armageddon. Even then, he didn’t really ask _Crowley_ things. Even when it _was_ technically a question — _So all this was your demonic handiwork?_ — he’d had an answer already set in his mind. Asking an open question and hoping for an honest answer — that was new.

Crowley stared across the room at him. The darkness of the cottage had been fine at first, but now Aziraphale found he felt rather vulnerable. Crowley could see him in the dark, see his expression and his worrying hands. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had even less of a read on his friend than usual.

The room trembled slightly with honesty when Crowley responded. “Nightmares.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Pardon?”

He could make out the silhouette of his demon, sprawling all too casually. When Aziraphale was upset he pulled in on himself like some tortoise retreating into its shell. Crowley was the opposite. He would spread out more, make a scene of being comfortable, of being big. _You can’t ruffle me,_ he seemed to say. _Don’t even try._

“I get nightmares, sometimes. S’no big deal. Wouldn’t want to bother you with them.” Aziraphale wanted to ask why he slept if he got nightmares, but the demon pushed on. “I’ll take the guest room, don’t really mind. You need room for your clothes and all that anyway, the master’s got a bigger closet.” 

“Crowley —” 

“S’fine.” Crowley was standing now. Aziraphale felt it more in the rising tension of the room than from his shadowy silhouette. “Speaking of, I’m tired. Been a long day.” And then he had gone, taking the bottle with him. 

Aziraphale stood to follow, but the room was dark and he whacked his knees on the coffee table. “Crowley!” he hissed in lieu of a swear, clutching the stinging spot. By the time Aziraphale had felt his way to the guest room, the door was already closed and locked. 

He could have opened it, of course, but he wouldn’t. If Crowley wanted some privacy, Aziraphale would do his best to give it to him. The last thing he wanted to do was drive the demon away. He did press his ear to the door, though. He didn’t know what he’d hoped to hear — gentle breathing? The rustling of sheets? — but there was nothing. Feeling defeated, Aziraphale stepped away. 

Aziraphale didn’t need to sleep, didn’t _like_ to sleep, so he tried to find other things to occupy himself with. He tried reading for a spell, but it was quite dark, and he didn’t feel like spending a miracle on a little bit of light. He also couldn’t find the candles in the dark. If it hadn’t been so dark, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but… well. Regardless of any circular reasoning, he didn’t think he’d be able to focus on a text right now. 

He considered bringing in a few more things from the car. The weather wasn’t bad, and there was enough moonlight to see the path to the house. When he reached the Bentley, though, he suddenly felt very put off by the idea of touching it without Crowley’s permission. Instead, he sat on the old bench in the garden, settling his hands on his lap. 

It was a beautiful night, truly. Now that the rain had broken, it was pleasantly cool, and the sky was clear enough to make out a good deal of stars. The moon was nearly full, bathing the hill in silver light. Far down the way, Aziraphale thought he could make out the steeple of a church in town. 

He looked up at the stars, pondering for a moment about the constellations. He knew a few of them, of course. Angels may have made the stars, but the humans always managed to exponentially improve — or at least change — whatever they had made. Constellations were an interesting invention of humans. They took the stars that the angels had placed and made them Earthbound, tracing their stories through the sky. Before there were texts, there were stars, and Aziraphale could still read them. 

He wondered what up there Crowley’d had a hand in making. He’d mentioned Alpha Centauri dreamily a few times during some of their heavier nights of drinking. It was a pair of stars, he’d said. Always pulling on each other, holding each other at a distance. His favorite work. Aziraphale didn’t push him to talk about what _else_ he remembered before the Fall. It wouldn’t have been polite. 

And of course, there at the end, he’d tried to convince the angel to actually _run away_ with him. Sometimes, when he was daydreaming or very drunk, Aziraphale wondered what it would have been like to actually go. To just step away from everything, say, _Sorry, did my best, but I’ve got something I want to keep safe more than any of you. Best of luck._ He wondered what sorts of expressions that would have pulled from Crowley’s face. Something new, maybe. Something beautiful. Aziraphale wished briefly that they were south of the equator, just so he could catch a glimpse of that beautiful thing Crowley had wanted so badly to share with him. 

Aziraphale frowned. Now he was just sitting here thinking about… _things._ Could he be blamed for that, though? It was so quiet here, just the slightest shifting of tall grass in a night breeze and the singing of crickets. So different from the rushing traffic of Soho, the way every noise echoed and bounced off of stone and concrete only to be absorbed by hundreds of human bodies. 

Why had he wanted so badly to live with Crowley? Because he could be at least a bit honest with himself, and he _did_ want to live with Crowley. Very badly, in fact. He didn’t have a reason, though — it just felt right. It made sense. It was just the two of them now, on their own side. Why shouldn’t they keep close? Especially now, when nobody was watching. Or at least, nobody who would _do_ anything about it 

Aziraphale always seemed to forget that very important fact. Habit was a bloody difficult thing to break. 

Did Crowley feel the same, though? Aziraphale had been so sure he did. He’d agreed to come here, after all, and in a hundred little ways over thousands of years, he’d shown it. If Aziraphale was honest with himself — a new, uncomfortable thing — he knew that doubting Crowley’s affection was just another way of hiding. He knew Crowley cared — he just wasn’t exactly sure what the demon _wanted_ from him. 

A chill breeze rose up the hill. Aziraphale hugged his arms to his chest, slipping the sleeves of his jumper over his hands. This was silly. 

Aziraphale made up his mind. God help him, he would _talk_ to Crowley. He would… he would march right up to the guest room, he would knock, he would say… he’d say… 

He dropped his head into his hands. He had no idea what to say. They loved each other, he knew, or something very near to that. He could feel it radiating from the demon, a constant gentle buzz that had been generated since… well, he couldn’t really remember when he’d realized the source. At least since Rome, although it had certainly gotten stronger as the centuries went on. He’d learned to tune it out, eventually. It had been quite distracting, and since he couldn’t really lean into it, Aziraphale had found it less painful to just ignore it. In retrospect, it was an entirely hurtful thing to do. 

His face burned. How had he gotten to this train of thought? No, this wouldn’t do. He needed to just talk it out, that was it. A nice, civil conversation over a bottle of wine. Or several. 

He sat up straight and slapped his thighs. “Chin up!” he told himself, then stood and strode up the path. 

Inside, the cottage was still dark. Terribly so now that Aziraphale was used to the moonlight outside. He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Let there be light,” he whispered. A shiver ran up his spine at the little act of rebellion, the reminder that nobody was going to tell him what to do now, or how to do it. He had the freedom, but he also had the responsibility of figuring out exactly what to do with it. With the kitchen lit, Aziraphale decided it was now or never. He walked the short distance to the guest room and rapped on the door. There was no response. 

He tried the handle once. Locked. He knocked again. “Crowley, Dear? Are you awake?” Silence. “I know you’re tired, and I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’d very much like to talk to you—” 

“Go away.” Crowley’s voice was raspy and low, muffled by the door. It sounded… well, if Aziraphale didn’t know better, he’d say it sounded like Crowley had been crying. 

“I will, but please. Just let me see you first.” He pressed his forehead to the door. “I’m worried about you, Dear,” he said, realizing it was true as the words left his mouth. 

When his demon didn’t respond, Aziraphale pressed his ear to the door. Crowley was breathing rather heavily. “Oh dear,” he muttered, then straightened up. “I’m coming in,” he said, trying to sound rather more confident with that decision than he felt. The door unlocked for him as he slipped his hand around the handle, then eased it open. 

It was dark, but some light from the kitchen shone into the room. The bed was half light, half dark, and in the center sat Crowley. He seemed to have a dark blanket wrapped around him so only his yellow eyes showed. They shone like twin stars. 

When Aziraphale took a step into the room, his shadow shifted and Crowley came into the light. He realized that he wasn’t wrapped in blankets. Rather, he had his wings out, wrapped tightly around himself as though seeking some sort of protection. He was shuddering violently. 

“Oh, my dear boy.” Even at a whisper, Aziraphale’s voice felt harsh against the silence. 

Crowley snapped and his sunglasses were in his hands, then shoved onto his face with trembling fingers. Aziraphale had expected anger at his interruption, maybe, or at least a pissy attitude. A demon all sprawled, voice like honey, saying something like, _ ‘Couldn’t stay away, could you? I’m not surprised. I’m irresissstible.’_ Something that would make Aziraphale blush and back out of the room, chastising himself for ever having worried about the demon. 

He certainly hadn’t expected this. The demon looked so small even with his wings up, his knees drawn up to his chest. “Hey, Angel,” he managed to croak out. As Aziraphale took another step into the room, he shifted warily on the bed as though fearing retribution. Mockery. His wings tightened around himself. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. He didn’t know what else to say. He hoped that Crowley would understand that he meant… that he meant whatever would make him feel better. 

Another quiet moment passed. A cloud passed over the moon outside the window. He noticed Crowley’s hand poking out from under his wings, clutching the blankets as though searching for an anchor. With a steadying breath Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed and rested a gentle hand on the demon’s. The grip on the blankets tightened, but Crowley didn’t move his hand away. They sat there silently for a minute. 

“I… ah,” Crowley started. “Sssorry.” 

Aziraphale looked at him, surprised and confused. His silence asked, _Whatever for?_

“Didn’t want to make a fuss about it.” Even with his sunglasses on, Crowley wouldn’t meet his eye. He had his head bowed down as if in prayer. Aziraphale realized he was shirtless, a shock of freckles visible on his shoulders even in the low light. “Bout the roomsss, I mean. Or the dreams. All of it."

Aziraphale listened to the slow confession, rubbing his thumb absently on the demon’s hand.

“S’just… hard. To… change, after all that time. Y’know?”

Aziraphale nodded. He did.

“All those years of… of orbiting around it, around… well.” He sighed. “And now…”

“Now,” Aziraphale agreed.

They sat in a more comfortable silence until Crowley’s breathing relaxed, Aziraphale still rubbing those little circles against his skin. His head tilted to the side in a way that meant he was getting drowsy, his wings slumping away from him and filling up the bed.

“Would you like to talk about the dreams?” Aziraphale ventured cautiously. To his disappointment but not surprise, Crowley stiffened. He shook his head.

“No… I can’t—”

Aziraphale patted his hand. “There’s no rush, my dear.” He tried to fit all of the affection he had for Crowley into those words. Anything he could do to ease his companion’s mind. “What do you want me to do right now? To help you?”

“I…” Crowley bit his lip. “Will you…” The fatigue started his sentences for him, but something in him kept ending them half shared.

“Anything,” Aziraphale whispered, and he meant it.

Crowley’s dark wings trembled, half in the shadows and half out of them. “Will you… talk to me, for a bit? Just until I fall asleep.” With a great effort he folded his wings and, with a blink of starlight, tucked them away into their plane.

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale patted the pillow and Crowley rested his head on it cautiously. He pulled his hand out from under Aziraphale’s and held it to his chest. Aziraphale shifted his own back to his lap.

“You know,” he began, “I’m quite excited to get started on the library.” He kept his voice low, gentle, the same tone he’d used to comfort Warlock when he’d skinned his knee out in the garden. “We’ll go into town sometime soon, if you’d like to come along, that is, and look for some suitable shelves. Perhaps custom made, wouldn’t that be lovely?”

Crowley hummed. He seemed to remember his sunglasses and slipped them off. Aziraphale took them from him gently, setting them on the bedside table. Crowley kept his beautiful eyes carefully downcast.

“And some nice heavy curtains for those windows in the den. You were right, by the way.” He smiled even though the demon wasn’t looking at him. It would show through his voice. “It will be a perfect little library. So cozy. And the garden,” he continued, “I’m sure you’ll make it so lovely. I can’t wait to see what you come up with — you always are so imaginative. So caring.”

There was something about the darkness of the room, about the way he could just barely make out Crowley’s face — his eyes fluttering shut now, dark lashes kissing his cheeks — that made it easier to say truths like these. Kind truths. Long overdue truths.

Perhaps something about the darkness made it easier for Crowley to accept them, too. As Aziraphale went on and on, talking about their plans for the cottage and Crowley’s virtues, the demon’s breathing slowed. Half an hour passed. When Aziraphale was fairly certain that his friend was asleep, and he’d memorized the way the moonlight kissed his skin, he stood up and quietly left the room. He left the door behind him, though, hoping to stave off his demon’s bad dreams with a little bit of light.


	2. Chapter 2

The night passed. Aziraphale spent most of it sitting on the bench, head tilted up to the sky and thinking. As the stars blinked out one by one and the sun began to rise, he came back inside. It felt important to be there when Crowley woke up. To comfort him, maybe. By just being there, Aziraphale could say, _Look, I’m still here. You didn’t chase me away._

Now that his mind wasn’t so restless, he could settle into the armchair in the den and read. _We’ll need to get a desk in here,_ he thought, and then his mind was absorbed in his reading.

Time passed. Lots of time passed, by human standards, at least. Aziraphale finished his book, checked on Crowley — he was still asleep, sprawled in a way that seemed uncomfortable to Aziraphale but which looked very, very Crowley — and sat down with another. After a few trips to the Bentley and many hours reading he had acquired a little pile to the right of his chair of finished books, as well as a few on his left to be entertained if need be.

(These were not his most favorite or most valuable books, you understand. Not that finicky. They could handle a bit of less than polite storage.)

Halfway through a less-than-rare 1950’s publication of _A Tale of Two Cities,_ he was interrupted by a prickling sensation on the nape of his neck. He looked up. Those two twin moons were staring at him again, the demon peeking around the door frame into the den. He hadn’t the faintest how long he’d been standing there. He had on a dress shirt now, but it was unbuttoned. His chest seemed to shimmer in contrast to the dark clothing in the golden light of Aziraphale’s miracle. 

It was night again, he realized, although he wasn’t sure if it was the first that had passed since he started reading. He smiled up at Crowley. “Hello, Dear,” he chimed, slipping his golden wire glasses off the bridge of his nose. “Did you sleep alright?”

Crowley shrugged, exaggerated with dramatic flair but still heavy with sleep. He sauntered over to the couch and tumbled onto it with all the grace and practice of an Olympic gymnast. His hair was all ruffled, giving him the impression of a rather drowsy hedgehog. He was quite the picture.

“I was thinking we could pop into town today,” Aziraphale mused. It was more to fill the room with calming sound than anything. “Poke around a bit. See if there are any decent restaurants, or a barbershop…” Aziraphale cut himself of, cold horror flooding through his veins.

“Mmm?” Crowley asked, rolling over to face the angel. 

“My barber.” The angel put a hand to his face. “I entirely forgot to inform Jonathan that I wouldn’t be coming back.”

“Hmm. He’ll probably think you drowned in the tub or something.” Aziraphale shot him a look and the demon sleepily smirked. “Too soon?”

Aziraphale pushed on. “No, he knew I’d be moving. I just never mentioned that I wouldn’t be coming _back_ for my trims.”

“Don’t think you need to worry too much, Angel,” Crowley grumbled. “Most people don’t travel two hours to get a trim.” Then he tensed a bit, eyes narrowing. “He knew you were moving?”

“Well, I didn’t make any sort of explicit announcement, but yes. We talked extensively about potential cottages and designs and he gave me a few tips on gardens, although I politely informed him that likely nobody knows as much as _you_ — you _were_ at the original garden, after all…” Aziraphale trailed off, noticing the demon’s agape expression. “What is it?”

Crowley shut his mouth. “Nothing, I just… you talk about me to other people.” He wasn’t forthcoming with any further information on what he meant by that.

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes, of course I do. You are a very big part of my life, Dear, and if I must say so, the most interesting and enjoyable aspect of it.” Crowley was silent again. Aziraphale wondered if his pupils were always so widely blown when he went quiet like this. “Are you upset with me?”

“No, no!” Crowley rushed. “More… charmed, really.” He spoke with an affected drawl. “That you’d… want to talk about me.”

Aziraphale chucked. “My dear boy, you think too little of yourself.”

Crowley threw himself on his back, scowling on the ceiling. “You better’ve told him all bad things. No lies about me being sweet or anything like that.”

“Of course, Dear.” Dawn was approaching, and the grainy blue light was drifting through the windows. Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley looked quite fetching like this. This was a level of relaxed that Aziraphale had never really been privy to before, not sober, at least. He could get used to this. A little sleep tousled, for sure, but there was something oddly charming about it. Those messy locks were just begging for Aziraphale to comb through them. He wondered privately if they’d feel like feathers, or perhaps like soft grass. He felt a surge of warmth that was half love and half embarrassment. When Crowley shifted a bit, likely from the long silence, he pushed on.

“Jonathan believes you are the most foul, inconsiderate man that I could ever have the displeasure of sharing a beautiful cottage near the South Downs with.” That was wrong on every count except the fact that they were sharing a cottage, and it seemed to please Crowley, who hummed and shut his eyes again.

They sat there for a long while in comfortable silence. Aziraphale returned to reading, but it was mostly just something to look up from whenever he wanted to see Crowley lounging across from him. As the demon continued to relax, Aziraphale wondered if he was about to fall asleep. That wouldn’t do.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, closing his book with a loud _smack_ and standing up. “I believe I’d like to take a stroll. Would you care to join me?”

Crowley was to his feet before the angel had finished speaking. “Just give me a second to get ready.” One literal second and a snap later and he was dressed in his usual dark ensemble. He slipped his sunglasses over his eyes. “Fine, let’s go.”

Aziraphale couldn’t suppress the charmed smile and flood of warmth he felt for Crowley. The demon ducked his head. Aziraphale patted his shoulder, then headed towards the door.

“If I freeze to death,” Crowley warned, lifting a scarf from the hook near the door and wrapping it around his neck, “I’ll haunt you forever.”

“That sounds perfectly lovely, Dear.” Aziraphale held the door, and the two stepped out into the dawn air.

—

The next few days went by rather peacefully. There were walks to the coast and strolls through town. They made a few trips out of the area, first to collect some lovely shelves from a neighboring town, and then to London to grab a few of the more finicky books. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to part with them, but he also hadn’t been willing to bring them until he knew they’d be comfortable in their new home. Now, the two of them had set up something of a little library in the den, with four shelves against the walls and plenty of room for more. Aziraphale sipped his tea in his armchair as he watched Crowley climb up on a kitchen chair he’d pulled into the den, hanging up the heavy curtains over the window. For being the original serpent, he really did have rather long limbs.

On the seventh day in Sudfield, they sat down to eat at a little family restaurant. Their entrees left Aziraphale a bit wanting, but they had an absolutely stunning sticky toffee pudding. It was quite scrummy, Aziraphale had to admit, closing his eyes and sighing as he took another bite. When he opened them, he realized that Crowley was staring at him intensely from across the table, his chin propped against a fist.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

Crowley shook his head, smirking. “Nothing. Just like watching you.”

If Aziraphale’s ears burned as red as they felt, Crowley didn’t mention it.

Crowley hadn’t slept since that first night, and they hadn’t discussed it further. Aziraphale had entirely dropped the conversation he’d meant to bring up. His resolve had been shaken, he thought miserably, and besides, was there really a need for it? They were spending nearly all of their time together anyway, and Crowley did seem to enjoy it, so why push things?

They’d gotten some light bulbs for inside and some small lanterns for the yard and spent time organizing the home. They mostly worked on the den, but they organized a bit in the kitchen as well. “I’m going to learn to cook you something that’ll make your mouth water,” Crowley had vowed, hefting a bag of flour into the cupboards.

One evening when Crowley was lounging in the den, Aziraphale decided to move his clothes into the master closet. He hung his jackets and jumpers carefully, not a sleeve out of place. He spread the sheets out on the king size mattress, tucking each corner in by hand. At the bottom of the closet, he found a lovely old quilt that must have been left behind by the previous owner. As he spread it out on the bed, it left him buzzing with warmth. It absolutely _glowed_ with love, Aziraphale thought. Positively bubbled with it.

He glanced out the doorway. From inside the bedroom, he could make out the very tiniest sliver of the den. Crowley’s feet were up on the armrest of the couch, which meant he was likely comfortably lounging. Aziraphale could spend a minute… indulging, then.

He didn’t get undressed — he wasn’t going to _sleep_, after all — but he did untie his shoes and set them next to the foot of the bed. Then he sat cross legged on the mattress, tracing a manicured finger across the quilt.

Each stitch was warm. He could feel it, the months of devotion to the project to… it had been a present, he realized, rubbing a finger over an embroidered rose. With this amount of devotion and unconditional love, it was probably from a parent, or perhaps a very steadfast partner. When he closed his eyes and splayed his palms over it, he could picture it, very slightly; weathered hands, fabric in a lap, seated in a rocking chair. Each stitch an intention, a little mantra. _I love you. Let me keep you warm, my love._

The whole cottage had a tint of this love, but it was so much more _dense_ in this quilt. Now that he’d opened himself up to it, Aziraphale felt positively muddled. He sighed, lying face down on the bed and sprawling ever so slightly.

He wasn’t quite sure how much time passed — the warmth was all he was aware of — but eventually his reverie was interrupted by a confused and amused voice. “Everything alright in here, Angel?”

Aziraphale bolted up, his sense returning to him in a sudden rush. “Oh! Ah,” he said, working quickly to straighten the sheets and then his own jumper. “Tickety-boo.” He couldn’t turn to face Crowley. He was certain his face was burning, and after all, he wasn’t sure how to explain this situation to Crowley. After all, everyone knew demons couldn’t feel love, and it would seem a bit… well, silly, to say that the quilt felt so _loved_ that it had made the angel drowsy.

He heard a low whistle over his shoulder and realized Crowley had entered the room properly. He ran a black-nailed hand over the quilt, right next to Aziraphale’s thigh. “Somebody seriously loved this quilt. Kinda a shame it was left behind, huh?”

“Well, it’s more about the thought than the actual project.” After a beat of heavy silence, Aziraphale’s mind caught up with the demon’s words. “Wait. How do you know that?”

“I mean, it’s not rocket science. It’s right here, so they couldn’t have—”

“No, not that.” Exhausting, the demon was sometimes. “That it’s so _loved_.”

“Eh,” Crowley said. He sniffed. “I can sense it.”

“You can _what_?”

Crowley shrugged. “Used to be an angel, y’know.”

“Yes, but… but it’s a well known fact that demons lost their ability to feel love when they… well.”

“Fell,” Crowley finished dryly. “Yes, I gathered that from you over the years. Tell me, Angel, who taught you that?”

“Well…” Crowley couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Other angels, yeah.” Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. “Y’know, I thought propaganda was more of a _Below_ kind of thing, but I guess in certain cases it lends weight to a _moral argument._” Aziraphale could hear the smirk in his voice and glanced up. His face was so soft. Aziraphale wondered if his pupils were that lovely ring of blown black and gold behind his glasses. More than that, though, he looked as though he were… waiting for something.

There was a tickling thought which slowly, slowly took form. It shoved its way to the front of the angel’s mind, shouting, _Now hold on just a moment!_ It was the unbearably soft face that the demon was giving him — the face that said, _Lift home?_ — that finally lit the bulb in Aziraphale’s mind.

“You can feel _love!”_ Aziraphale repeated, gobsmacked.

“Yes.”

“_Crow_ley!”

“Yes?” There it was, that familiar irritated quirk of the lip, that finally snapped the angel’s restraint.

He reached forward and grabbed Crowley’s wrists, and the demon let him pull them from his pockets and slot together. When Aziraphale tugged him forward, Crowley only lost his balance for a moment. Aziraphale pulled their clasped hands up to his chest and burrowed his face in them. They were cool like a summer evening.

“I am positively _relieved_,” Aziraphale mumbled, “That you knew all these years.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley said awkwardly. “Knowing and believing are two different things. Never was sure that you didn’t just have a sort of… unhealthy devotion towards crepes.” There was a beat of silence as Aziraphale just held his hands, lips pressed against their backs in an almost-kiss, and then Crowley added, “We are talking about the same thing, right?”

“I love you, you old Serpent,” Aziraphale declared. He scooted back on the bed and tugged Crowley’s hands gently, and the demon followed him onto the bed. Nearly straddled him, really, but Aziraphale was overwhelmed with joy at being this close to him that he didn’t really mind. Didn’t mind at all, in fact.

“Ah. That’s alright, then,” Crowley croaked. He cleared his throat. “But, ah… could we not do this on the quilt?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, blinking and wondering exactly what _this_ was. “Oh, alright. Should we… ah—”

“Just, we don’t have to do anything, just the… emotion, it’s all kinda getting muddled with the—”

“Yes, ah, it is rather overwhelming. Nearly fell asleep myself—”

“Would you like to?” Crowley interrupted him suddenly, a sense of near urgency in his voice.

Aziraphale frowned in thought. “Sleep?”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah. Don’t have to… do anything. I—” He took a shuddering breath. “Just, when you were… with me, until I fell asleep…” He ducked his head slightly. “That was the first time in a while that I didn’t. Ngk.”

_The nightmares._ Aziraphale still wasn’t sure what they were about, but they must be absolutely awful if they were keeping Crowley from sleeping. Not that he needed it, but he did enjoy it, and Aziraphale knew he wasn’t one to deprive himself of joys. Not usually, at least.

He squeezed Crowley’s hands. “I’d like nothing more.” The rush of joy and relief he felt from the demon was dizzying.

They decided to sleep in the guest room — even with the quilt folded up, it still radiated that distracting, parental sort of love. The bed in here was smaller, but Aziraphale couldn’t have minded less.

Crowley miracled himself a cotton shirt and a pair of boxers, his glasses folded on the bedside table, and Aziraphale unpacked a nice set of beige pajamas with a tartan collar. “I wasn’t sure when I’d get the chance to use these when I bought them,” he told the demon excitedly as he buttoned them to his chin.

Crowley snorted, already under the covers. He had one leg thrown out from under them, dangling over the side of the bed. “You know, you can sleep anytime you want to. Don’t need a reason.”

“I know.” Aziraphale rested a hand on the edge of the covers. “I just never really had an interest when it was just me. It would have been valuable reading time wasted.” As he shimmied under the covers, he could feel the hesitation building on Crowley’s tongue. _You don’t need to do this for me,_ he was about to say. Aziraphale patted his shoulder before he could say it. “I’m perfectly excited to try it now, though.”

Crowley loosened a bit, then snorted. “Getting excited is the exact opposite thing you out to do if you want to sleep, Angel.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not very well versed in it, I’ll admit. Perhaps I could get a few pointers from the world’s finest?”

“World’s finest sleeper. That’s one commendation I never got from Below,” he muttered, then brushed past it. “Look, you’re too stiff.” Aziraphale frowned. He was lying on his back, head on the pillow like he was supposed to, hands clasped over his stomach.

“But this is _comfortable_ for me,” He protested.

Crowley snorted, turning on his side to face the angel. “You looked like you were about to pass out before. What were you doing then?”

“Well,” Aziraphale started coyly, as though he didn’t know exactly what had put him in that state. “I suppose it may have had something to do with the quilt.” Crowley raised his eyebrow. “Oh,” Aziraphale rushed on, “You know, all that love. It just got so warm and _cozy_ and… and I suppose I felt rather safe.” He glanced down at the space between them. He did so love to see Crowley’s eyes, but he was still getting used to how _seen_ he felt by them.

“Well,” Crowley ventured, “Sometimes when humans sleep together they… hold each other.”

“You mean cuddle?”

Crowley made a face, pulling back slightly — but only slightly. “Eghk, don’t call it that, Angel. You’ll make me sound soft.”

The dark room really did make saying things easier. Aziraphale turned on his side to face Crowley. They were close enough that he could feel his breath. “There’s only me here now, love, and I already know just how sweet you are.”

Crowley made something of a wounded noise, and if he hadn’t felt such a steady burn of love coming from the demon, Aziraphale might have been concerned. “Shaddap. Just… come here, already.” And he tugged the angel’s arm, and Aziraphale shifted towards him.

It was a timid movement, but sure. Crowley rested his chin atop the angel’s curls and Aziraphale tucked his face against the demon’s collarbone. He smelled of morning dew and the couch he’d been sprawling on. Crowley was warm, much warmer than Aziraphale had imagined. He wasn’t sure if this was because of the blankets or just the vast amounts of love radiating from him. Aziraphale found that he couldn’t get close enough.

The angel shifted further until their legs were tangled slightly, their stomachs flush. He shifted his arm over Crowley’s waist and let his hand press against his lower back. Crowley shivered slightly under his touch, but before Aziraphale could pull away the demon had a hand gently hooked on the back of his head. Lithe fingers buried into the angel’s curls. “S’alright?” he asked.

Aziraphale smiled into the cotton shirt and hummed. “Perfectly lovely.”

_This is so much nicer than the quilt, _ he thought. He felt silly for having been overwhelmed by the amount of love and devotion to that project. Compared to this, it had been a bucket, one with a crack in the side at that. 

This, _this,_ was like the deepest ocean. Like the Earth before land. It flooded around him, held him close, supported him. It was all there was. It was so warm, like liquid gold, and it tasted like the first bite of an apple and stardust and champagne bubbling over and honey and the last bit of crepe, except that bite just resonated again and again and never stopped and never would and—

“Angel?” a voice made of love whispered. Warm air tickled his ear.

Aziraphale hummed, eyes still closed, and smiled. He burrowed his face deeper into the warmth he was pressed against.

A soft pressure on the back of his head. Fingers stroking his hair. Aziraphale squeezed his arms around the warmth and heard it chuckle.

“You alright there, Angel?” The warmth was amused.

Aziraphale sighed and nodded into it. _Crowley_, he thought, vaguely present again but not willing to leave the fuzzy state of mind just yet. All that was here was Crowley and his love for Aziraphale. There was nowhere better to be.

“Love you,” he murmured into Crowley’s chest.

He felt a bloom of warmth on the crown of his head — a _kiss,_ he realized. Crowley had planted a kiss on his head. Aziraphale wiggled happily and Crowley laughed. “Love you too, dove,” and that was so sweet that Aziraphale thought he might burst at the seams.

“Hmmm,” he answered wistfully. His thoughts started to trickle back in. “Am I doing it right? Will you be able to sleep soon?”

Crowley laughed again, another blessing. It was bright like fresh snow. “Yeah, Angel, v’been asleep for a while now.” He stroked the angel’s hair. “Woke up eventually, and you were still out, so. Thought I’d just rest here until you woke up.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale wondered vaguely if he should be embarrassed, but the waves of fondness rolling off of Crowley put his mind to rest. “And how long did I sleep, then?”

“Hmm.” Fingers traced Aziraphale’s ear, and the tenderness offered to pull him under. He nearly obliged. “About a year, I’d say.”

Now Aziraphale was awake. “A _year?_” He sat up straight in bed, clutching his chest dramatically. He only vaguely registered the grunt of pain Crowley made — he’d hit his head against the demon’s chin as he sat up. “Why didn’t you _wake_ me? I’ve left books in the shop, they’ll be all dusty and—!”

“Kidding, Angel, kidding,” Crowley grumbled, but didn’t sit up. “It was three days, tops.”

Aziraphale let his hands drop to his lap. “Ah.”

In the bed next to him Crowley rested, sans sunglasses. His face was relaxed, his eyebrows raised in amusement. And his eyes… golden, like morning sunlight, like a gentle flame, like fields of buttercups. Gentle, encompassing, lively. _Full of love_, Aziraphale realized, finally, and sighed into a little smile.

“Well,” he said. “I guess that answers the question of who’s sleeping where.”

Crowley shifted slightly, propping himself up on an elbow. In response he took Aziraphale’s hand gently, kissing the little gold ring on his pinky finger. The metal almost burned Aziraphale under such love and devotion, but it felt good. Those brilliant eyes flicked up, locking onto his. “You know, Angel, I think I’m still feeling a bit drowsy.”

Aziraphale hummed. “Well,” he said coyly. “I suppose I could be persuaded to stay in bed for a bit longer. As long as you promise me a suitably large breakfast afterwards.”

Crowley tugged him back under the covers, pulling him close. “For you, Angel,” he whispered in his ear, “All the breakfast in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you couldn't tell, Sudfield is (meant to be) made up. I did a lot of research on the South Downs and the surrounding area, and I'm pretty sure that Hampshire county is included in that? I did do my best, and then realized I was stressing over Fluff, which is not the point of it, so I cut myself a break and just pushed on.  
(I was initially going to base the town on Petersfield, then realized I knew nothing about that, so I changed the prefix to 'south' and called it quits.)


End file.
